Enemies
by Lomiel
Summary: In a few short days, Loki of Asgard went from being an outcast and a fugitive to a general commanding an invading army. But he didn't do it alone - and now that he's gone, the man who made it possible has to answer for the destruction and chaos he helped to cause, even against his own will.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Through the Avengers movie, it goes completely unaddressed how Loki goes from a newcomer on Earth with a magic spear to the head of a high-tech covert organization with a real shot at world domination in a matter of days. The short answer is: Hawkeye is a tactical genius. Someone should tell that story, and since Joss Whedon hasn't (yet, fingers crossed), I'm going to try.

As usual, everything you recognize belongs to Marvel. Not being intimately familiar with the background universe, I have freely made stuff up. Don't expect canon, is what I'm saying. The T rating is for violence and language.

A special thank you to beta reader and friend Aminara, who patiently talked through ideas with me and encouraged me to post. :)

* * *

"If it's all the same to you," Loki grinned sheepishly up at them, "I'll have that drink now."

It wasn't all the same to Clint Barton. The red tide of battlefield adrenaline was surging in his ears, and although his body ached and trembled with the fatigue of the past few days, his aim was perfectly steady. He sighted down the arrow shaft, the bowstring pressing into his jaw, feeling the exhaustion and the rage in every joint and muscle and wishing, wanting, longing to let his fingers relax and let the arrow fly.

He could picture, with vicious joy, exactly what would happen to Loki at this range, if his experience with killing mortals could extend to Norse gods as well. The feathered shaft would leap from the string with a musical thrum and a low hiss and break the skin of Loki's throat in half a heartbeat. By the second half, the wickedly bladed arrowhead would explode out the back of his neck, bringing with it bits of ligament, cartilage, muscle, and bone that the spin and force of the arrow had dragged along. Eyes wide with shock and agony, the god would try to draw breath, but in vain; his throat would be ruined, and it would become delightfully irrelevant whether the suffocation or the catastrophic blood loss would kill him first. Clint would watch carefully, and enjoy every moment of the brief and futile struggle.

He blinked, and the red mist faded; there sat Loki before him, battered but regretfully still breathing. He flirted again with the temptation to shoot, but a heavy hand on his shoulder cut into his thoughts.

"Stand down, soldier," Captain Rogers' voice filtered into his mind, very distant and so very insignificant. Clint didn't so much as glance towards Rogers, but he did see Natasha in his peripheral vision. She wasn't watching him, but Rogers, like a panther ready to pounce. She didn't have to say anything or even look his way; he knew that if he loosed the arrow and killed Loki, she would back his play. Her clothes torn, her face smudged with grime and blood, her hair drenched in sweat, still on her feet only because of adrenaline and stubbornness, and she was willing to take on Captain America for his chance at revenge. To Clint, she looked like an angel.

Clint took a deep breath and let it out slowly, relaxing the bowstring gradually as he did so, and stood. He felt just as shattered as Natasha looked, and with that last acquiescence, his last source of strength deserted him, and he wavered on his feet. As he turned away, he heard the others begin to move again as well, and with an effort he tuned out the voices of Iron Man and Thor as they made sure Loki stayed subdued.

Slipping the unused arrow back into his quiver, Clint picked his way gingerly through the ruined penthouse onto Iron Man's landing pad and into the sunshine. The midday glare stung his eyes and he slipped on his sunglasses to shield his vision. Far below, the noise of the aftermath swirled like a fog: sirens, car and smoke alarms, horns, and human voices, raised in frantic shouts, bellowing through bullhorns, screaming over dead loved ones. The sickly acrid sweetness of mixed Chitauri and human blood was already almost overpowering.

"Are you okay?" Natasha was by his side, eyes narrowed as she examined his face.

"That fucking bastard," Clint spat out after a pause. He clenched his teeth in helpless fury, then collapsed his bow in resignation. "Thanks for having my back."

"You too." They stood together for a long moment in silence, lost in their own thoughts, wondering at the warm sunlight that reminded them they were still alive. "I should say you made the right choice," Natasha remarked into the silence, "but if it had been me, I would have shot him."

Clint laughed softly, and that was the end of it for the moment. Loki would suffer in other ways for what he'd done, but it would be a long time before Clint cleaned up the mess he'd been forced to make.

"Well, at this point I'll kill anyone who stands between me and a hot bath," Natasha commented.

Clint sighed. "As much as I agree with you, there's something I have to do first. After that…you and I need to talk about Abidjan." He looked her in the eye until she pursed her lips and shrugged a shoulder—the closest he could expect to consent.

Clint and Natasha returned inside just as the elevator doors slid open and the Director himself strode out to survey the damage, flanked by a SHIELD strike team. As usual, Fury looked severe, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth when he beheld a thoroughly restrained Loki betrayed his satisfaction. "Well done, team. The situation isn't exactly contained, but it's better than we could have hoped."

"You're welcome for saving the world, I'm here all week," Tony Stark hollered from where he was sprawled with a glass of scotch in hand on the couch, still clad in his armor. "This is my place, actually. Is SHIELD planning on paying for this mess?"

"We need to decide what to do with Loki now," Fury continued without acknowledging the comment. "SHIELD has a holding facility here in New York—"

"I think we've all had enough of SHIELD's holding facilities," Stark cut in, scrambling to his feet. "Unless you're planning on dropping him out of another aircraft, because that might be fun."

"I will return him to Asgard immediately," Thor rumbled, in a voice that left no room for disagreement. "Every moment we remain on this planet, he poses a further threat."

Fury sighed and nodded. "And I suppose you'll need the cube for that?"

Thor frowned, glancing at the armed agents behind Fury. "It belongs on my world, and I will not allow—"

"Don't worry, you can have the damn thing," Fury said. "It hardly seems too high a price to pay to get rid of him. Captain Rogers, a word."

The thunder god nodded and, with Iron Man to help and the Hulk following, escorted Loki to the workshop to be outfitted with some proper restraints. Clint, who had listened to the whole conversation with barely contained impatience, stepped forward to meet the director.

"Agent Barton," Fury acknowledged him. Clint saw the strike team tense and fidget at his approach. He decided to ignore it.

"Director Fury," Clint answered. He swallowed. He wasn't looking forward to saying what had to come next, but Natasha's silent presence beside him was reassuring. "There's an urgent matter that I wanted to discuss with you."

"I'm not going to let you go, Agent Barton," Fury responded immediately. "You're one of the best, and whatever magic shit Loki pulled, a full debrief will bring the truth to light. Well," the director emended thoughtfully, "however much truth there is in what little light SHIELD has to spare."

"All due respect, sir, I appreciate that, but—"

"As for Abidjan," Fury continued, "I'm still displeased with the both of you. But considering you just saved the world, I'm going to let it slide for a while."

"Sir," Clint persisted, "thank you, but I need a secure line to undercover ops immediately."

Fury gestured over his shoulder, and one of the strike team members pulled a cell from his vest, punched in the numbers, and handed it to the director. "What for, Agent Barton?" Fury asked, eye narrowed.

"When I was…" Clint trailed off, at a loss for words to describe what he'd been through. Possessed? Mind controlled? "When I was under Loki's influence—" _God, that made it sound like a bad hangover— _"I used intel on undercover operatives to bargain for resources. If there's any chance of saving the agents I compromised—"

Fury handed him the phone. On the line, a distant voice asked him for his clearance code, then for a description of the situation. Clint nearly laughed. "Contact Agents Kristov, Cavanaugh, Michaels, Graefe, and Thompson immediately. Their covers are blown and their lives are in danger."

"Sir, all those agents are in deep cover and are out of SHIELD contact."

"Do whatever you have to—pigeons, smoke signals, a fucking Blackhawk full of Marines, I don't care. If they're not already dead, they will be soon without help." Clint clenched his teeth, wishing he didn't have to speak the next sentence. "And note for the record that Agent Pollock has been killed in action."

"Yes sir," the phone replied, and Clint handed it back to Fury, who was watching him keenly.

"Get cleaned up and take the rest of the day off," Fury ordered in response to Clint's expectant look. "Then report for debrief at Base One at oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning."

"Sir, I'd like to be present to see Loki off."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Agent Barton."

Clint allowed himself a small smile. "And if I promise to leave my bow at home?"

Fury looked at him closely, his face unreadable as always. Something sent a chill down Clint's spine—there was something he was missing. After a long moment, though, Fury nodded. "Fine, you've earned it. The park in three hours."

"Yes sir," Clint replied as Fury turned back to Rogers. He stared down at his scraped and bloodied hands to avoid seeing the look on Natasha's face. She walked over to Fury in response to an impatient gesture, and frowned at the instructions that he delivered in a voice too low for Clint to catch. Finally she acquiesced to the orders with a tight-lipped "Sir," and Fury swept away with the Captain at his side, already deep in conversation.

"Hawkman and Spiderwoman!" a far-too-cheerful voice called for their attention. The two assassins turned to see Tony Stark swagger out of the elevator, limping only slightly, in a fresh Led Zeppelin T-shirt with a small brigade of medical personnel fluttering around him anxiously. One was reaching forward to tend a bruise above his eye, but Stark swatted the hand away and ignored the rest. "Hey, welcome back to the side of the angels, Judolas. Guess the dark side needs better cookies. Will you knock it off?" He glowered at the med staff, who glared back and reluctantly retreated.

Clint frowned at the billionaire, not sure how to respond. Luckily, Stark was never at a loss for words. He extended a hand, which Clint shook automatically. "Tony Stark, pleasure. You knew that, though. Seriously, you look like hell. Nothing a hot shower—" his eye flickered to Natasha and a smirk pulled at his lips—"and a stiff drink can't fix."

"Loki?" Clint asked, his voice surprisingly thick.

"The Jolly Green Giant and He-Man are babysitting him downstairs." As if in answer, a crash from below their feet and an inhuman bellow made the floor vibrate.

"Sir," a dignified English voice came from nowhere, "your presence is required in the workshop."

"Better get back down there before one of them literally sits on him." He started to turn away, but held up a hand when the two assassins stepped forward to follow him. "Don't you two even think about it. You'd either be in the way or you'd 'accidentally' end up killing him. I don't really have a problem with the latter, but our mythological friend might object." He clapped Clint companionably on the left arm, and the archer swallowed the wince as the still-healing injury twinged violently. Stark, of course, didn't seem to notice. "Take it easy, we won't have the going-away party without you. Jarvis, show them to the guest rooms and make 'em at home, will you."

"Of course, sir. Agent Barton, Agent Romanoff, right this way, please." Stark grinned at them as the elevator doors closed, and Clint turned his aching steps toward the small lights in the walls that led him and Natasha to the guest suites.

He tottered into the room that Jarvis showed him and the door slid shut behind him. He paused for a moment, eyes scanning the luxurious accommodations from force of habit, but mostly he was listening to the silence ringing in his ears and reveling in the delicious, soothing emptiness of the room. He convinced himself not to collapse directly on the very inviting bed and instead made his way to the bathroom.

The bathroom felt too big, too bright, and too fancy, with too many mirrors everywhere showing him his own haggard face, battered body and lifeless eyes. Clint tried to ignore the images of himself from all sides and instead focused on peeling off his uniform slowly, hissing through his teeth as the fabric came away, reopening the scabs that had begun to form over new wounds. His back ached from the less-than-graceful landing from the rooftop; he made a mental note, forgotten a second later, to thank the weapons techs that had insisted on including a grappling hook arrowhead in his quiver over his protests at the time about how stupid and useless it would be. The deep maroon color had also been a good choice, he mused absently as he tossed his vest on the floor; it hid dried blood perfectly.

The blast of warm water stung the cuts and scrapes all over his body, but Clint had endured far worse, and the warmth was much more comfort than not. His body was whole and mostly undamaged—it was his mind that was shot all to hell. He tried not to think about it and focused instead on gently cleaning the grime and blood—both his own and Chitauri—from his skin and gingerly scrubbing out his wounds. The water at his feet ran murky brown. It was a while before he began to feel clean.

Finally he stepped from the shower, slipped into the soft T-shirt and sweats he found in a cabinet, and padded silently to the bed. He sat down slowly, very aware of his aching muscles and back, and used the first aid kit from the bathroom to bandage the larger cuts that were still seeping blood. He had to marvel at how lucky he had been to escape major injury. With a last halfhearted scrub at his damp hair with the towel, he tossed it on the floor and sank back into the pillows. He only had a few moments to enjoy the solitude before exhaustion pushed him down into sleep.

...

"Agent Barton," a polite but insistent voice was calling him. Clint floated slowly to the surface of consciousness, unwilling to awaken fully. He'd just finished a bitch of a mission—something spectacularly awful that he didn't want to think about yet. _Can't have been much worse than Abidjan_, he thought ruefully. Instead of answering the oddly British voice trying to wake him, he did preflight checks instead, tensing and relaxing muscles all over his body. Soreness and bruising, mostly; tensing his left arm sent a shot of pain from his fingertips into his neck and spine. That brought him to full wakefulness right away.

"Fuck me," Clint groaned and clapped a hand over his eyes as the memories of the last few days came crashing in. He didn't want to move or even think, but the adrenaline of remembered chaos had his heart going and he was already wide awake.

"As much as I appreciate the invitation, I'd rather not," Stark's cyber-butler replied primly. "Agent Barton, the team is preparing to remove the prisoner. You wanted to be present, I believe?"

"Yeah, sure," Clint grumbled, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His tongue felt swollen and his head full of cotton. "Thanks, uh…"

"Jarvis, sir."

"Right." It was too weird talking to an empty room, so he went to the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water. The mirrors were staring at him again. He stared back, then stuck out his tongue at his reflection.

"If you need a change of clothes, an agent left your bag outside your door while you were asleep," Jarvis informed him. Clint grunted in acknowledgement and retrieved the black duffel from the corridor. He always kept a spare go-bag in his locker with extra clothes and weapons, and someone on the SHIELD team must have brought it with them. How considerate. He dug out a red shirt and black jeans, then smiled as he found a spare pair of sunglasses in a case at the bottom of the bag and slid those on too.

He'd just finished changing when Jarvis piped up again. "Agent Romanoff is on her way, sir."

Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair and nodded. "Let her in." He scowled to himself. "Uh, please."

"It's kind of you to ask nicely, but there's no need to stand on ceremony," Jarvis commented in a long-suffering tone. "There's a car waiting for you on the parking level."

Clint finished stuffing his scattered clothes, including his somewhat mangled uniform, into the duffel, then more reverently retrieved his quiver and bow from the shelf that he'd dumped them on earlier. Somewhat guiltily, he checked his weapons—the bowstring was intact, and the bow itself a little banged up but functional. The quiver was mostly empty, and both bow and quiver were splattered with dirt and blood and in need of a thorough cleaning. Clint stood there for a second, running his fingers along the graceful, swooping curve of the bow. In an instant the grip was in his hand and the string pulled back to the familiar spot on his jaw, a movement he'd done so many times that it was as unconscious and natural as breathing. His fingers stroked the buttons inlaid in the grip, miming the pattern for explosive arrows. He was standing on the roof of a skyscraper, searching for a target; the whine of alien engines and energy weapons filled the air.

"Nat, what are you doing?" he demanded. She was hurtling through the air, crouched on the back of a limp Chitauri, trying to pilot the alien vehicle with sheer determination.

"Little help!" He saw her lips move from far away, but her voice came through in his ear like she was standing beside him. Behind her, Loki was closing in, his grin triumphant and his eyes mad. Clint sighted down the arrow, forcing his breathing to slow. The moment had to be right. He couldn't miss.

"I got him," he murmured to himself. His instincts didn't fail him. The shot was perfect; his fingers began to relax—

"Ready to go?" Natasha's voice broke into the powerful memory. Clint tightened his grip on the string again and released the tension slowly. He turned to see her in the doorway, watching him with a raised eyebrow. "Don't think you should bring that. You might be tempted to use it."

"My aim's too good. I'd want him to suffer more than that," Clint answered with a rueful smile. He collapsed the bow and carefully packed it in the duffel. Slinging his quiver jauntily over one shoulder, he joined Natasha in the doorway. She didn't move to let him past, though, and instead inspected his face closely. Clint knew what she was going to ask, but he raised his eyebrows and made her spell it out for him.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked.

"Nat, I'm sure. If I can't kill the bastard, at least I can spit in his face before he leaves." He put on a mischievous grin. "Metaphorically, of course."

Natasha smirked halfheartedly, but there were shadows in her eyes. Clint felt the smile slide off his own face. "Nat, what aren't you telling me?"

"Honestly? You look like hell. What happened to your face?" She probed his forehead with ungentle fingers, ignoring his hiss of pain.

"_You_ happened to my face," Clint retorted sullenly, knowing Natasha would hear the unspoken gratefulness underneath. She shook her head, still-drying red curls bouncing around her ears, and then tried the smile again. "Let's go."

Clint followed her retreating form in suspicious silence. Natasha was an expert liar, but even she couldn't hide that much guilt.

...

Clint and Natasha stepped out the tinted car into the sunlight again. The ride over had been accomplished in silence; Clint knew Natasha wasn't telling him something and resented it, and Natasha was in no hurry to discuss that or anything else. As Clint walked around the car, though, he caught Natasha's look and gave her a barely perceptible reassuring nod: he was going to be fine.

The other Avengers were gathered at the small plaza, exchanging looks of weary triumph, but the tension that ran through them was palpable despite their easygoing exteriors. In the center of their little gathering, Loki stood bound and gagged, his entire body oozing hatred. At the sight of him, Clint felt his muscles tense in unconscious revolt. He longed for his bow in his hand and glanced wistfully at the trunk of the car where it was stashed in his bag.

There was little ceremony or protocol to follow, and in any case, standing in the middle of Central Park with a war criminal from another dimension for too long was likely to invite some kind of attention. Instead Thor shook hands with each of them in turn. Clint accepted the gesture somewhat reluctantly and was glad when it was over, resenting both the obviously controlled power in the thunder god's grip and the look of pity and guilt on his face.

Finally the moment came. Thor looked around at the gathered faces one last time, but Clint's eyes were locked on Loki. The god was defeated, humiliated, and gagged, but still his eyes threatened and raged with barely controlled arrogance. Clint stared back, determined to show that he was unbeaten, but he was glad for the restraints, unsure if he could stomach the sound of Loki's voice and his cloying, poisonous smile.

At his side, Natasha shifted closer to him. "Gag suits him, don't you think?" she murmured in his ear, as if she could read his mind. Clint didn't answer, but with his eyes fixed on Loki's, he let his lips curl into a mocking smirk. Loki's face darkened murderously, which just made Clint's smile widen.

A moment later, Loki had begrudgingly taken hold of the device encasing the cube and, with a twist of his wrist, Thor and his brother vanished in a flash of azure energy. Clint felt his smile melt away and clenched his teeth against the sudden sickness at the sight of that light. He remembered all too well the waves of glowing blue tearing through his chest, sharpening his vision and crashing into his mind. Now, and perhaps forever, Loki was out of his reach.

He heard Natasha breathe in deeply, as if she had been holding her breath underwater and had finally surfaced again. He glanced down at her and found her staring at the spot where Loki had stood; her face was hard but her eyes were full of agony. The sight unsettled him.

The other Avengers were leaving, scattering to their lives, but as Clint made to return to the car, Natasha caught his arm. She turned that gaze on him, and Clint felt the shiver in his spine that meant something terrible was about to happen.

"When you're ready, we need to talk," Natasha suggested, in a voice that told him he didn't have a choice.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Welcome to chapter 2, aka Come to the Dark Side, We Have Flashbacks. Hello to the followers out there and a huge thank-you to the reviewers for chapter 1: Guest (log in so I can acknowledge you properly!), TheNaggingCube, Aminara, and terrik33.

As usual, everything you recognize (I should say, everything Marvel's lawyers recognize) belongs to Marvel. T rating is for violence and language—as you can see for yourself in the first sentence there.

Thanks again to beta-reader and all-around awesome person, Aminara.

* * *

"Fuck!" Clint bit down on the last consonant, startled out of him by the sting of his bowstring smacking his forearm. In moments, a bright red welt raised on his skin, well on its way to becoming a lovely bruise. Clint tugged his armguard up over the smarting welt with a grimace; luckily, no one else wanted to hang out in the archery range at four in the morning, so there were no witnesses to the slip. He was barely able to remember the last time he had been sloppy enough to let his weapon hit him back. Today, though, his thoughts were a confused garble, and even his marksman's clarity and the comforting familiarity of the range weren't enough to sort them out.

Clint drew and nocked another arrow from his quiver, adjusted for the increased distance to target from the calibration of his sight, and released the bowstring in movements too quick for conscious thought. The tips were blunted for range use, but the arrow still buried itself deep in the fluttering piece of paper pinned to the target face, right through the "a" in "dangerously compromised" listed below his own name and the title of the psychological assessment, dated three days ago. Three days ago—that would be one day after Loki had stepped through space or time or both in a maelstrom of blue fire and Clint's bullet had bounced off the god's throat; one day after Loki had immobilized him with a crushing grip, looked into his soul, and stabbed him through the heart. No, that wasn't right—Clint rubbed the spot where the scepter had touched, reminding himself that the skin was unbroken. But nonetheless, the truth of the memory was painfully clear: the terrible, wonderful agony in his chest, the momentary darkness in his eyes and his mind, and then—an overwhelming sense of enlightenment and truth; every line and shape etched on his mind in fire; and a complete contentment, a joy even, as his will was torn away. The frenzy of battle had faded from his mind, replaced by a cold serenity and absolute assurance. There was no moment of decision, to obey or to fight; he did what he did in full awareness, utterly secure in the knowledge that Loki's will was the only will that mattered, and no more able to defy it than a falling stone could fight gravity.

Which was why, although Clint had felt the blue fire tear through his mind and soul, Coulson had felt Loki's blade through his heart for real.

Clint still couldn't decide what to tell Fury and the other officers of SHIELD at the upcoming debriefing; the memories, though crisp and clear, were too much to process. Instead, he drew another arrow and sent it through the "e" in "history of mental instability" on the report, barely registering the words; at this point, he'd been over the file so many times that the words were etched into his memory. The report was written based on recovered video from the destroyed research facility and the testimony of Agent Hill and other witnesses, and it positively stank of triumphant condemnation. The SHIELD psychiatrists had been calling him volatile, untrustworthy, and unstable for years, and only Coulson's stubborn loyalty and Fury's unequivocal endorsements had kept him in the field, especially after the uproar over Natasha.

She'd been the one to tell him the full story, finally, when the insanity died down. They'd seen Loki off to a fate unknown on another world, as much as Clint would've liked to see him die firsthand, choking desperately for air around an arrow through his larynx and drowning in his own blood. Instead, Natasha walked with Clint in the park for hours, letting him decide when to speak. That afternoon, they'd both slept more deeply and soundly than they had in weeks, the comatose slumber of the exhausted in body and mind. Through the night into early this morning, unable to rest any longer, he'd had his real debriefing from her: the chaos of the scattered Avengers, the scope and depth of Loki's destruction, and the forging of the team that saved the world against frankly stupid odds. He'd wanted the real story from her, a voice he trusted, before he got the select bits of censored nonsense from the brass.

Someone he trusted—Clint's jaw clenched, another wave of anger crashing through him. She'd told him about Coulson, how he had given his life to stop Loki, how he'd kept fighting until the end, how his death had been the catalyst that had bonded them into a team. She'd told him everything—now that it was too late to do anything about it. And he had let Loki be taken away to another dimension, had _smiled_ to see him go, unaware that Coulson was dead and the green-eyed monster before him had the blood on his hands. Clint had been willing to defer his own vengeance for his shredded mind and shattered soul, but _no one_ had the right to stop him from killing the bastard who murdered his closest friend.

Rationally, he understood it. He knew that Natasha would have told him—_should have told him_, his mind shouted back at him—but Fury had ordered her not to. That wouldn't stop Natasha, normally, as she tended to do whatever the hell she pleased, but Fury had convinced her not to, with a combination of threats, logic, and persuasion. Clint understood the reasons why he couldn't be allowed to execute Loki—beyond the question if he even could—but he was past caring about offended demigods and interdimensional politics and fair trials. It may have been unfair on his part, but to hell with that: Natasha had betrayed his trust, and let him let Coulson's murderer go free. After all he had done, brainwashed or not, that led to Coulson's death, she could have given him that at least.

Now he felt like the guilt would never let him sleep again.

Clint checked the time and pulled his bow over his head, then jogged out to the target to retrieve his arrows, making no attempt to not shred the report as he pulled them out. Back at the shooting line, he replaced the mutilated sheet in the folder, pausing to scan again the supplementary report of the attack underneath in Coulson's cramped handwriting. _Agent Barton is believed to be under the influence of an unknown hostile power and acting against his will_ caught his eye, and he skimmed down to _a valuable asset and courageous agent not to be written off for circumstances outside his control_. Clint stared at the page, swallowing hard, unable to escape the thought that as Coulson was writing those words to protect and defend him, he had been planning the attack on the helicarrier that ended with the enemy's escape and Coulson's death.

He closed the folder and left the range without a sound.

…

Clint reported for his debriefing at 0655, dressed smartly in a new set of blacks with the SHIELD eagle emblazoned on his chest. He was admitted instantly into the debriefing room, which from its sparse, dark furniture and one-way mirror, looked suspiciously like an interrogation room. There, Fury and two senior officers were waiting for him with stacks of folders piled before them. Clint stood at ease, meeting their appraising gazes in turn. Fury watched him impassively, his single eye unreadable; the two officers studied him like he carried a virulent and aggressive plague, both curious and appalled.

"Thank you for coming, Agent Barton," the officer on the left said by way of greeting, which seemed to Clint to be a stupid thing to say, as he hadn't exactly been offered a choice. "Please be seated."

As Clint stepped forward and planted himself in the uncomfortable metal chair, the officer spoke again. "I'm Agent Arai, and my colleague is Agent Meyer. We will be debriefing you on the events of the last few days. It would be best if you tell us your…experience, and we can fill in the necessary details as needed."

Clint resisted the urge to snort in derision, noting the sleek black microphone on the table, aimed at him. Agent Meyer had opened one of the files to take notes, and all three of them were watching him expectantly.

"I'd like you to begin, Agent Barton," Meyer spoke up, glancing down at the file, "just after the incident in Abidjan…"

…

The Tesseract assignment, although cushy and about as low-risk as his kind of missions came, had not been a favor. That was the best way to put it diplomatically, and Hawkeye tried to see it as a well-earned slap on the wrist for the honestly embarrassing clusterfuck of a mission in Abidjan, and not as a time out for an unruly annoyance, which was what it felt like. Coulson had explained to him about the intensive and drawn-out vetting process to work in the research facility, which meant that everyone was well-checked, but also that complacency and status quo ruled the complex. They were sending him in to keep an eye on things: to watch and observe, to study the complex with an outsider's eye and spot potential weaknesses. So it was that after a grueling and humiliating debriefing of the Abidjan debacle and a decision made on his reassignment, he was on a quinjet to the ass end of nowhere in the desert without a single moment to speak to or even see Natasha. This he understood, from SHIELD's point of view: no reason to let the two of them get their stories straight or try to pull one on the ever-vigilant suits. But they needed to discuss what had happened, because leaving off where they had was an awkward place for both of them. Hawkeye's request to at least speak to Black Widow on the satphone was curtly denied, and he was informed that she had already been reassigned undercover—far away, he felt it was safe to assume—and would be maintaining radio silence for the duration of the op. Never one to take a reprimand graciously, Hawkeye sulked and snarked all the way across the endless desert about how he was better at sneaking in and killing the people inside high-security top-secret compounds than protecting them, while Coulson ignored him with the detached ease of long and weary practice.

As they approached the compound and made their final approach for landing, Hawkeye reached for his quiver and slung it over his shoulder with a practiced twist. Coulson, who had tuned out from Hawkeye's complaining hours ago, looked up from his computer with raised eyebrows. "Not very subtle."

"I'm the new man on campus. No reason to be subtle," Hawkeye replied with a grin.

"You want them to know who you are."

"They already do," Hawkeye retorted. "Might as well make the best of it."

"You won't make any friends by showing off."

Hawkeye rolled his eyes at his handler, who had already lost interest in the conversation and returned his eyes to the screen. "Wasn't planning on making friends, G-Man."

"Then godspeed, John Glenn."

The desert air hit Hawkeye in the face with a wave of dust that instantly brought back memories of Afghanistan, Iraq—Abidjan. Hawkeye frowned at that thought and jogged easily out into the blinding sun with Coulson on his heels. They pulled up to a more dignified walk once out of the wash of the quinjet's engines and took shelter inside the blessedly air-conditioned office building that also housed the underground lab.

"Agent Coulson," a tall, be-sunglassed model of the Nordic ideal, only in a nondescript black suit, said in greeting as they entered. After a pause and an unimpressed glance, he deigned to add, "and Agent Barton."

"Agent McKenzie," Coulson returned with equal frigidity, "thank you for meeting us. Agent Barton, Agent McKenzie, head of security."

Hawkeye shook the proffered hand and looked up unblinkingly into the distrustful gaze leveled at him. "Charmed, I'm sure."

McKenzie ignored the comment and turned to a smiling blue-eyed man in a lab coat just as he walked up. "This is Dr Selvig, head of research. After a short debrief, he'll help you get set up to do…whatever your directive is."

"Classified," Coulson confirmed with the smile Hawkeye privately referred to as the Killer Rabbit: all charm and goodwill with sharp teeth just below the surface. Hawkeye caught McKenzie's eye and winked, which earned him an unappreciative frown.

The promised short debrief took well over an hour—mostly a boring repetition of the base layout, hierarchical structure, security protocols, and research projects that Hawkeye had already either memorized or deemed unimportant on the interminable flight over. Dr Selvig was soon called away back to work, and Coulson, with his own responsibilities to attend to, left Hawkeye to his own devices. Freed for the time being from McKenzie and his muscleheads—Hawkeye had slipped by or killed too many so-called security specialists to be much impressed—he let his feet take him where he liked, exploring and refining the map in his head, investigating dead ends and surprising a very embarrassed secretary and a chagrined postdoc during their mutual lunch break in a supply closet.

It was early evening when Hawkeye wandered into the cantina, spotting Coulson at a table by himself. And no wonder—he was focused very intently on his laptop, his fettuccini and broccoli going cold and untouched beside him. Hawkeye dropped into the seat across the table, ostensibly ignoring the stares that followed him across the room.

"How's the reading? Spoilers: Dumbledore dies."

Coulson glanced over at him with his patented if-that's-the-best-you've-got-I'm-unimpressed face. "Find anything interesting?"

"All kinds of sneaky spots," Hawkeye mused. "Lots of locked doors and security guards unpersuaded by my scintillating personality."

"Imagine that," Coulson remarked drily. "I expect those didn't deter you."

"Nope."

"Anything suspicious?"

"It's a secret SHIELD research facility, Coulson. The whole damn place is suspicious."

Coulson sighed and closed his laptop. "One thing at a time. Have you found a perch yet?"

"There aren't any readily apparent vantage points, especially in the Tesseract lab," Hawkeye said with a frown. "But I'm pretty sure I can convince someone to rig something up for me."

"Fine. There's a briefing on Phase 2 tomorrow that you should attend at 0800."

"What's Phase 2?"

"Come to the briefing and find out." Coulson took a bite of his pasta, made a face, and pushed the tray away.

"Just like Ma used to make?" Hawkeye inquired with an innocent grin.

"Congealed," Coulson commented, frowning at the food.

"Delicious. What about you?"

"Hmm?"

"Discover anything scandalous?"

"It's a secret SHIELD research facility, Barton," Coulson deadpanned in his typical friendly manner. "Everything is damned scandalous."

"Business as usual, then. Want a new plate?"

Coulson looked up as Hawkeye rose to get his own food. "I think my appetite's gone."

"That'd be a first," Hawkeye laughed, and snatched up Coulson's tray to dump the food on his way. He had been friends with Coulson for years now, but the man was often still a mystery; while Hawkeye could read stony faces and tough-guy facades as easily as he could read the wind on a range flag, Coulson's easygoing amicability was a confounding factor. The man was downright unassuming—which, Hawkeye mused, was probably a major assent for a public liaison for a super-secret black ops organization—but sometimes when he smiled, Hawkeye could see the steel glinting through. Years of sparring and real fights for survival in the field together had taught him not to underestimate his handler.

Sure enough, after sitting through the unnecessarily convoluted briefing the next morning—the lengths these guys went to just to avoid saying they were attempting to weaponize the cube were astounding—Coulson caught his eye before Hawkeye could slip away again. At his side was an earnest and slightly nervous-looking young man in a lab coat.

"Agent Barton," Coulson said with a smile that meant, in no uncertain terms, _be nice_, "this is Dr Förster."

"Morning," the young man greeted with an unsure smile of his own. Hawkeye set his features into a mask of seriousness and shook the researcher's hand firmly. He had instantly recognized the amorous young man from the supply closet the day before, and Förster's unwillingness to meet his gaze confirmed it.

"Dr Förster has agreed to help you find a suitable observation point," Coulson continued, giving Hawkeye a meaningful look. "I'm sure you've picked out a spot you can utilize."

"To be honest, Agent Barton, I'm not sure what your requirements are," Förster began hesitantly. "If you need a computer terminal—"

"Not exactly," Hawkeye said with a grin, nodding at Coulson as his handler excused himself to speak with the Phase 2 project manager. Hawkeye didn't like the idea of Coulson being too directly involved in such a project, but that would have to be dealt with later.

After a few hours of surveying the Tesseract labs from every possible angle—including, to Förster's consternation, the air vents and rafters—Hawkeye finally found a spot he liked. From there it was easy to commandeer a maintenance platform and rig it securely. With a system of pulleys and ropes for access in place, Hawkeye dismissed Förster back to his work, to the poor man's immense relief. Hawkeye settled down on his new perch and watched the young man's white coat join the crowd of others milling around below, like bees working diligently around a glowing blue queen.

To his own irritation, Hawkeye found the Tesseract compound an intriguing study, if not exhilarating. Although not a specialist in interpersonal relations himself, Hawkeye found the flow of the human tide fascinating to observe from above. Years in the field had refined his natural intuition about each behavior and mannerism and the thoughts behind them, and in short order he was confident that he had a good handle on the dynamics of the lab: the hierarchical pecking order, the jealousies and petty triumphs. He had to laugh to himself; even among highly trained scientists in a world-class lab studying a top secret superweapon—or whatever the hell that thing was—human nature was the same as in any company, pub, or living room on the planet.

Hawkeye had been cleared to receive information on the Tesseract as soon as his assignment had been approved, and he found himself loaded down with homework for the first few days. He read through all the files and reports on the compound—its history and establishment, its stated purposes, and the progress its team had made—but made little headway into the technical papers flowing profusely from the desk of Dr. Eric Selvig. Of course, thermonuclear astrophysics wasn't exactly in Hawkeye's wheelhouse to begin with, but if the whole point of this time-out mission was to protect the study of the glowing cube, then he would do his best to get his head around it. Even with the help of Wikipedia and all the files he could get his hands on, nothing was making sense, so late on the third evening, he slid down the rope to the floor to where a single desk lamp still burned, the only light in the vaulted lab besides the eerie blue glow of the cube itself.

Dr Eric Selvig sat hunched over his desk, muttering softly to himself. Hawkeye approached soundlessly and peered over the man's shoulder, but the rows of equations and scribbled notations meant nothing to him. He glanced at Selvig's face; the scientist was staring into space, frowning vaguely. As his presence hadn't yet been noticed, Hawkeye walked around the table and sat down in a chair with deliberate noise. "What's up, doc?"

"What?" Selvig jumped. "Ah, Agent Barton. Sorry, I didn't hear you. Can I help you?"

"Yeah, got a minute?" Hawkeye held up the briefing file on the cube. "I can quote this damn thing by heart but I don't have a clue what it means."

Selvig shrugged with an almost embarrassed smile. "That's not surprising; most people don't. Sometimes I suspect some of my own lab assistants are just as lost."

"Not Katrin, though."

The faint blush and the momentary glance that Selvig threw at the workstation beside his told Hawkeye that his guess had been right. He schooled his face to keep the triumphant smirk off his lips.

"Yes, Dr Lundin is a very gifted physicist," Selvig agreed, shuffling the papers before him at random. "Did you have a question?"

"Yes. What does the Tesseract do, why does it do it, and why does SHIELD care?"

Selvig frowned. "Didn't you go to the briefings?"

Hawkeye shrugged one shoulder. He had, of course—he knew better than to incur Coulson's wrath—but had found them either oversimplistic and vague or hopelessly dry and technical. "You know all this best."

Selvig sighed and rubbed his temples. "The cube is…it's a source of energy. Almost unlimited energy, really. We assume it has limits, but we haven't found them yet."

Hawkeye frowned. "It's a battery."

"Very simplistically. If we could learn to tap into it, we could do—amazing things, Agent Barton."

"Like what?" Hawkeye prompted. "World peace, stop global warming, put an iPhone in the hand of every person on the planet?"

"Maybe, but that's thinking too small. We could rid ourselves of our dependence on unsustainable fuel sources, yes, but we could create new materials, new computers, that demand energy we can't currently produce. But we could also use it to—to bend the fabric of the universe, to reach other worlds, to travel to the stars."

"Reach other worlds—you mean a wormhole."

"Einstein-Rosen bridge, yes," Selvig said. He was smiling. "I've seen the power of such a bridge before. The cube could be a doorway to another part of the universe."

Hawkeye looked over his shoulder at the cube, resting in its metal nest. "How about weapons?"

Selvig's lip curled in distaste. "Some projects have such an idea. At the moment, we don't know nearly enough about the cube to not blow the planet apart."

"What do you do, then, exactly?"

Selvig sighed wearily. "We look for the explanation for the cube's power—how to describe what it is and does. When we know that, we can begin looking for the key to unlocking it without…unwanted consequences."

"Comforting," Hawkeye muttered to himself. "Good night, doctor." He rose, reclaiming his summary file.

"I know it's classified," Selvig started abruptly, "but what is an agent like you doing here?" In response to Hawkeye's frown, he continued, "Everyone knows your reputation. Is there something I should know?"

Hawkeye turned his gaze to the cube. "You said that thing could destroy this planet. There are a lot of people out there who would do anything to get their hands on that kind of power." He glanced back at Selvig. "I'm here to find those people and kill them before they can try."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Lomiel Productions is proud to present chapter 3, aka Shit Goes Down (Finally). Sorry I keep changing the summary; I'll pin it down eventually, I hope. Thank you very much to the followers who are hanging in there and the reviewers from chapter 2: Aminara, TheNaggingCube, and Alpha Flyer.

As usual, everything you recognize (I should say, everything Marvel's lawyers recognize) belongs to Marvel. T rating is for violence and language.

Beta reader Aminara continues to be super amazing and more patient with me than I deserve.

* * *

The weeks of surveillance dragged on and on. Soon Hawkeye had the entire research compound memorized from end to end, and occasional conversations with Selvig meant he even had a loose grasp on what little they knew of the physics of the cube. He didn't see much of Coulson, who had been drafted in full-time to help run Phase 2, so he focused on his own responsibilities: regular briefings with the security team about incoming or departing personnel and possible points of weakness, observing, looking for patterns, just watching. He'd write up everything in a tidy little report packed full to the brim with as much snark as he thought he could get away with and hand it off to Coulson, then he'd go shoot some targets full of arrows—cardboard boxes piled full of packing material that he had swiped for the purpose. Hawkeye could be as patient as he had to be, and he'd be damned if he showed any sign that Fury's time-out was getting to him, but he had unresolved business with Natasha, and the desert monotony was starting to wear on him.

_Day 42: I think I may die here. If this ever reaches the outside world, send a message to Romeo's on 23rd that their pizza was the best_. Hawkeye peeled off the post-it and stuck it on the front of yet another report, of which he was thoroughly and heartily sick. He tucked the report under his arm and climbed over the edge of his "nest," as Selvig had taken to calling it, ready to slide down to the floor, when the incongruent trill of a red-wing blackbird caught his attention, reverberating weirdly in the huge concrete vault. He grinned and dropped down the rope to the ground to land in a crouch in front of Coulson.

"Nice of you to remember me," Hawkeye groused by way of greeting.

Coulson smiled blandly, unfazed. "You're a big boy. I'm sure you can take care of yourself."

Hawkeye shrugged in acknowledgement. "Saved me the trouble of taking this down to your perpetually empty office." He presented the folder to Coulson with a sarcastic flourish.

"Let's trade." Coulson took the report from his hands and replaced it with a new one emblazoned with the SHIELD logo with EYES ONLY stamped threateningly across the front. Hawkeye glanced questioningly at his handler, unable to keep the hope from rising in his chest, and flipped open the folder. Sure enough: a name, a profile, a grainy picture at a wonky angle-finally, a proper job.

"I got you a high-profile hit for your triumphant return from exile," Coulson informed him with satisfaction. "Extreme prejudice."

"My favorite," Hawkeye murmured, poring over the file already. "Who's…Josef Haas? PhD in particle physics, PhD in thermonuclear astrophysics, postdoctoral work in quantum theory...damn."

"Swiss genius from a family that's made its fortune in banking. He's the black sheep of the family, since he went into physics instead of finance. Worked at CERN and in labs around the world on all kinds of top-secret experimental projects."

"And he gets an arrow through the heart because…?"

"Our agent within a splinter group of AIM tells us he's just taken control of the organization," Coulson finished grimly. "A combination of political maneuvering, bribery, and outright assassination. It looks like he's got wind of the cube and is getting ready to make a move for it soon."

"I'm surprised Fury didn't want to keep me here on watchdog duty."

"He did. But I managed to convince him that you'd be the best choice to stop Haas before he gets too far. Security reinforcements will be arriving in the next few days."

"Well, we can't have any part of HYDRA getting back in the game." Hawkeye snapped the folder shut, fruitlessly trying to contain his relief at the prospect of getting out of the middle of nowhere. "Coffee and briefing?"

"I've got work," Coulson demurred vaguely, "and everything you'll need for now is in the folder. Read up and we'll have a formal briefing tomorrow at 0900."

Hawkeye acquiesced with a sarcastic salute and Coulson walked away, stopping to talk with Selvig on his way out. Hawkeye watched as the two men left together, deep in conversation—that had to be about Phase 2, from the look of distaste on Selvig's face.

Although he'd been planning on heading to the gym after the report, the temptation of the new assignment was too much. Hawkeye returned to his nest and began the process of getting to know Josef Haas' life inside and out: memorizing the man's personal history and preferences, his areas of expertise and his modes of operation, the features of his face. The agent planted in the fast-reviving and innocent-sounding terrorist group Advanced Idea Mechanics had been observant and thorough, and had even managed to provide information—albeit vague and qualified—on where Haas would be for a brief window of time in the next few days, as AIM was holding a reception to welcome new researchers into the fold. Hawkeye smirked to himself-even terrorist groups had to have bureaucracies and office parties, apparently.

Hawkeye was so absorbed in his studying that he missed the first electric sizzle from below, but he didn't miss the following shout of surprise. Instantly alert, Hawkeye put away the folder and leaned over the railing on his perch. There were a few late-working postdocs and assistants doing paperwork, and all of them were staring at the cube, looking thunderstruck. Hawkeye was about to shout down to Förster, who stood at his station with his jaw slack and eyes wide, for an explanation when the cube spit out another tongue of blue fire. The smell of ozone wafted up to Hawkeye's perch. There was a long silence in the huge vaulted space, then on every laptop at once, the alert began to go off: Priority Three. "Shit," Hawkeye growled, reaching for the duffel of tactical gear stored in the rafters. The entire compound operated normally on Priority Five—heightened security—and Four was reasonable belief for a impending attack. Three meant there was a significant and possibly escalating problem in the lab; Two was full-blown emergency; and One was total meltdown. _Could be worse_, Hawkeye thought to himself as he strapped his Kevlar vest into place and checked his guns were loaded, cursing that he had left his bow in the range the night before. Not that his stone-age weapon, although wonderful for making great bloody holes in bad guys, would be much use against a magic cube anyway, he mused in frustration.

In minutes, the lab was full of swarming techs, trying to disconnect the power and control the increasingly frequent discharges, all of which was futile. They worked at it steadily for hours, but despite their best efforts, the cube reacted more and more strongly. Hawkeye knew when he'd be no help, so he stayed in his perch, focusing on the faces and patterns of movement in the lab, searching for anything wrong or out of place, anyone unfamiliar.

_"How's the view?"_ his short-range comm crackled to life with Coulson's voice.

"A little apocalyptic, but otherwise all's well," he answered into the comm, his eyes never leaving the frantic swarming of motion below. Selvig had returned to his workstation, where he examined incoming reports from the various labs and issued directions; even in the bustle, Hawkeye noticed the lingering contact of eyes and hands when Dr Lundin turned in her report and smiled distantly.

_"Fury's on his way and should be here in an hour,"_ Coulson said, adding, _"Let me know if you see anything suspicious."_

"Yeah. We gonna evac?"

_"Already started for nonessentials. Hang tight for now, but don't worry, we won't leave you behind."_

"Good to know," Hawkeye muttered. His eyes sought any change in the ordered chaos below, any anomalies that would flag an intruder, but nothing caught his attention. He double-checked his weapons and grimly settled down to wait for the inevitable disaster.

...

Hawkeye squeezed the trigger and saw the bullet ricochet, impossibly, off the intruder's neck. The attacker had come out of nowhere—out of an eternity of star-scattered black space, wreathed in the blue flame of the cube. The black-haired madman grinned, eyes wild, and held out his spear-weapon to fire. Hawkeye threw himself to the side; the roll became a tumble as he was hit by the heat and concussive shockwave of the explosion just behind him. He landed heavily, the breath knocked from his lungs, and with an effort forced himself back to his feet.

Movement, black and green, caught his attention in the corner of his eye. Hawkeye spun, bringing his gun up to fire, but his arm was caught in a powerful grip, the joints twisted painfully. Hawkeye grimaced when the still-healing wound from Abidjan protested, his whole shoulder immobilized. He found himself staring back into the madman's green-eyed gaze.

"You have heart," the man said, raising his spear again. Hawkeye had a moment to brace himself, preparing for the blast of energy that would annihilate him. Instead, the sharp point touched his chest, the gem shone with azure fire that scorched his lungs and burst his heart—

For a moment the world was plunged into blackness. Who he was or had been ceased to matter, to even exist, in the endless dark. A light sparked to life in the utter void, as bright as the sun, the most perfect blue—

The world resolved itself into being again, concrete and twisted steel and the smell of blood and electricity and burnt flesh. Every line and curve was drawn on his vision in threads of fire; exhilaration flooded through him, the joy of awaking from a confused nightmare into reality. Before him stood Loki, King of Asgard, who watched him carefully, witnessing his rebirth. The adrenaline of battle was fading—he had been fighting Loki, he recalled with some surprise; the thought was now too absurd to entertain. He replaced his gun in its holster and relaxed, awaiting further orders. Loki smiled at him approvingly and turned away.

Hawkeye heard Loki speaking, heard the tones of threat and rage in Fury's voice. Fury—just moments ago he had saved Fury's life. His memories were fresh and clear in his mind, but distant, as if they had happened to another person. It seemed so obvious now, something he had been searching for, missing his whole life without knowing it, given to him suddenly and beyond all hope: his purpose was to serve Loki, in life or death. Why or how he had ever thought differently he could no longer fathom.

In his newly refined vision, the condensing ball of energy high above burned brilliantly, but Hawkeye felt no pain and didn't look away. Loki was still speaking to Fury, trying to reason with him.

"You say peace. I kind of think you mean the other thing," Fury countered, the tension clear in his voice. Of course, Fury would never understand the truth until he experienced it himself. There didn't, however, seem to be time for that.

"Sir, Director Fury is stalling," Hawkeye cut in, striding over to Loki's side. "This place is about to blow. It'll drop a hundred feet of rock on us." He stared at Fury, torn between pity and contempt. "He means to bury us."

"Like the pharaohs of old," Fury acknowledged grimly.

"He's right. The portal is collapsing in on itself," Selvig confirmed from a lab terminal. He had stepped over the sprawled, motionless body of Katrin Lundin without looking down. Hawkeye didn't have to see his eyes; he could hear the truth of the cube in Selvig's voice. "We have maybe two minutes before this goes critical."

Loki looked at Hawkeye expectantly. "Well then."

Hawkeye drew his pistol and fired at the Director point-blank. Fury toppled backwards with a muffled shout, and Hawkeye stepped forward to pick up the briefcase containing the cube. Loki led the way out of the lab by the light of the energy of the portal, leaving the man with the eyepatch behind to burn.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I'd already started writing this when I finally got to see the extended scene on the DVD with Loki and Hawkeye making plans. I thought about it and decided to keep my version, but just mix elements from that scene (which is now, I assume, proper canon) into my story at various points. If you haven't seen the extended scene, make sure to look it up 'cause it's awesome.

Thank you very much to the chapter 3 reviewers: TheNaggingCube, Aminara, and Alpha Flyer.

As usual, everything you recognize (I should say, everything Marvel's lawyers recognize) belongs to Marvel. T rating is for violence and language.

Beta-reader and teacher extraordinaire Aminara continues to be pretty awesome.

* * *

The headlights illuminated a tiny, starkly contrasted patch of ground as the jeep flew and jostled along the dirt road through the desert; beyond the dim secondary glow that outlined a few scrubby bushes, they were adrift in a sea of darkness, with no barrier between earth and night sky. They had been driving for an hour in silence when Hawkeye stopped the jeep and got out.

Loki dismounted gracefully from the back, the scepter in his hand casting an eerie blue glow on his face. The same blue fire flickered around Hawkeye's vision, tracing the boxy outline of the jeep, the contours of Selvig's face, the curve of Loki's grin. He had to avoid looking directly at the pulsing blue gem lest he be momentarily blinded. Instead, Hawkeye dropped onto his back and pulled himself underneath the jeep. Flicking open a knife from his belt, he uncovered a small, utterly unremarkable black box welded to the chassis. His attempts to dislodge and damage it only chipped the blade.

"May I ask what you're doing?" Loki inquired in his purring tones. Hawkeye emerged from under the jeep and brushed himself off.

"There's a GPS tracker on all SHIELD vehicles," he explained. "It's welded on and can't be easily removed."

"I can work on that," Selvig chipped in, disembarking as well. "I can use the battery to overload it."

"How long?" Loki asked.

"Ten minutes."

"Let's be on our way in five, shall we?"

Selvig lifted the hood and began his work, retrieving extra cables from the jeep's emergency pack. Hawkeye strode away back the way they came until the sounds and lights of the jeep no longer affected his senses. He breathed in the desert air, listening, watching, combing the sky for any sign of pursuit. Gradually his night vision returned, but all the points of light scattered across the heavens were lightyears distant and unmoving.

"What do you think, my friend?"

Hawkeye glanced at Loki, now at his side. Even listening closely, he'd not heard his approach. "The implosion will have killed or wounded many agents, so resources in this area will be focused on rescue. It will take them some time to regroup and pursue. Still, we should change course and switch vehicles as soon as possible."

"Good news," Loki agreed, his cold smile dimly lit by the glow of the headlights. "What is your name?"

"Clint Barton. Alias Hawkeye."

"I see. I did admire your swift actions against the man with the eyepatch. A bit overdramatic, that, don't you think?"

"Director Fury finds it helpful for his appearance to match his reputation."

"Fury! What a delightfully apt name." Loki laughed softly, his eyes never moving from Hawkeye's face. "You admire him, do you not?"

Hawkeye lifted one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. "He has a clear line of sight." It had often impressed Hawkeye how Fury saw more with one good eye than most people ever saw with two.

"And is that why you failed to kill him?"

Hawkeye stiffened at the sudden steel in Loki's previously soothing voice. He was on dangerous ground here. He remembered clearly drawing his gun, knowing that Fury would have no time to retaliate, pulling the trigger—but he had struck the heart and not, as he should have, the head. Had he, Hawkeye, _missed_? Impossible.

"I was disoriented," Hawkeye blurted. It wasn't untrue, but it wasn't quite the full truth either. Loki's bladed gaze told him that he knew as much, but Hawkeye himself wasn't sure what small measure of his previous insanity had kept him from eliminating such a threat. "It won't happen again, sir."

"See that it doesn't," Loki hissed. "You are not indispensable, Agent Barton."

Hawkeye nodded curtly. From behind them came a flash of light and an electronic sizzle, and Selvig tottered uncertainly out from under the jeep as Hawkeye and Loki returned.

"I can't be certain, but that should've incapacitated it," Selvig announced, removing the extra wiring and slamming down the hood.

"We should still find a new car as soon as possible," Hawkeye reiterated as the three resumed their positions and he started the engine.

Loki settled himself in the back again and turned his face up to the starry heavens. "That, my dear Agent Barton, I shall leave up to you."

Half an hour later, as the sky began to lighten, an opportunity presented itself. Hawkeye pulled up at a small campsite with a truck; the previous night's campfire was dead and cold, and a muted snoring came from one of the two tents. Ignoring the sleepers, Hawkeye unloaded the gear from their jeep and carried it to the campers' truck. Loki sauntered into the camp, taking in the brightly colored tents and remains of a simple dinner with the fascinated air of a scientist observing the movements of insects. As Hawkeye and Selvig finished the transfer of gear, there was a rustling in one of the tents and a sleepy, tousle-haired face blinked drowsily in the unexpected light.

"Hey, guys, what's up?" the camper inquired sleepily. "Whatcha doing out here? Hey, Mike, wake up, we got company." A flannel-clad arm reached from the tent, scooped up a rock, and lobbed it into the wall of the snorer's tent.

"Where are the keys for your car?" Hawkeye demanded of the first camper, and got a bleary look of incomprehension in return. The other tent unzipped and Mike stumbled out in his boxer shorts, looking just as nonplussed.

"That is an awesome getup, man," he said, staggering over to where Loki watched with a vicious grin. "What are you supposed to be, like, a cowboy or something?"

"Where are the keys?" Hawkeye repeated, more insistently, and dragged the camper out of his tent by his flannel shirt.

"Hey, dude, leave Ryan alone!" Mike protested. "What do you want the keys for, anyway?"

"We're commandeering your vehicle," Hawkeye explained curtly.

"Like hell!" Ryan retorted angrily, shoving Hawkeye's hands away. "Who are you guys? Why are you dressed like that?"

"Yeah, you should leave," Mike chimed in, frowning. "You look like freaks."

"Is that what you think?" Loki inquired softly, and extended the scepter. There was a barely audible whine, then the discharge of the bolt of blue fire sent him staggering backwards. Mike tumbled back into his tent, already aflame.

"Shit!" Ryan scrambled away and bolted through the scrub, but before he'd taken five steps, Hawkeye drew his gun and sent a bullet through the base of his skull. The camper dropped in a heap of dust. Hawkeye searched him and found the keys without rolling him over; the rapidly spreading puddle of black beneath his throat was decisive. He dragged the body back to the campsite and piled the corpse and his tent atop his burning friend, then drove the jeep over them and cut the gas line. He climbed into the truck with Selvig as Loki took aim at the jeep and obliterated bodies, tents and vehicle in a balloon of blue and orange fire.

"Excellent work," Loki commented gleefully as he climbed in the back seat. "Agent Barton, our next move?"

"We need to set up a base of operations," Hawkeye replied promptly, putting the truck in gear. "I know just the place."

The truck rolled out from the burning campsite and Hawkeye dismissed the charred bodies of the unfortunate campers from his mind. In the back, Loki engaged Selvig in an enthusiastic discussion about the potential and powers of the Tesseract; despite his medieval appearance, Loki conversed fluently and intelligently with the scientist about the workings of the cube, once the two discovered that the contrasting sets of vocabulary they used—one of magic, the other of physics—were simply synonyms for the same phenomena. Once the conversation turned to interdimensional resonances and bridges across space-time, Hawkeye no longer found it worth the energy to pay attention and focused on the road. Content not to speak, he instead planned their next move.

Dawn found them far above the desert, watching the terrain slowly change beneath them. The truck's GPS had brought them to a small airfield where an old man was doing preflight checks for a morning flight in his Cessna. Hawkeye had disposed of him, finished the checks, and transferred their gear, and in short order they were in the air. The bone-deep drone of the Cessna's engines made talking uncomfortable, so instead Hawkeye guided the little airplane to an airport just outside the city limits. Luckily there was both a car rental service nearby and many enthusiastic amateur pilots not keeping a close eye on their wallets.

Hawkeye had found it useful over the years to set up safehouses in various cities, should disaster strike, as it inevitably did. With specialized skills, not just any kit would do, so over the years he worked out a network of small caches of armor, ammunition, weapons, and of course, extra bows, quivers, and arrows, along with clothing, rations, money, passports, and whatever else he would need to survive on short notice. Now again his forethought was rewarded when they arrived an hour later at an unremarkable, mostly run-down apartment building on the far edge of the city. Hawkeye led them to fourth floor and let them into a dusty little apartment, empty but for a small table and a couple of chairs under the window in the kitchen. Loki sank into one of the chairs and gazed out the window, apparently unimpressed; Selvig trundled off to use the bathroom. Hawkeye pulled up the floorboards to expose the compartment where he'd stored his gear months ago and, before anything else, reclaimed his bow.

The code-locked case was unmarked, and inside the slender black weapon lay nestled in a cocoon of soft grey foam, coiled and ready to be used. Hawkeye brushed his fingers over the graceful curves and pulled the bow from its place. With a practiced snap of his arm, the bow sprang open, the long limbs locking into place and drawing the bowstring taut. Hawkeye shrugged into one of his quivers, feeling like a missing limb had been replaced. Loki watched him with curiosity as he pulled and nocked an arrow from the quiver, drew back to his jaw, and aimed through the doorway at the far wall. His eyes found a crack in the plaster, drawn fire-bright for him in his newly sharpened vision, and he loosed the arrow, which thudded into the crack and stuck quivering.

"Fascinating," Loki murmured. "Tell me, Agent Barton—I've seen that you are quite proficient with your firearm. Why do you choose this rather…antiquated form of combat?"

"Any idiot can fire a gun. It takes skill and patience to use a bow. The bow's honest." Hawkeye paused, taking the time to examine the bowstring, looking for wear. "It's also versatile and silent. What it lacks in stopping power, it makes up for with, well…finesse."

"Excellent." Loki stood and brushed dust off his green and gold finery. "You and that remarkable weapon are going to win me the first fruits of my kingdom. You and the good doctor—"

"Selvig," the doctor supplied, returning to the kitchen with only a passing glance at the arrow in the wall. "I can't wait to get started working on the cube."

"Indeed," Loki muttered thoughtfully, stroking the curved blade of the scepter with long fingers. "We need supplies, and manpower, to begin our glorious work. Doctor Selvig, provide Agent Barton with a list of critical items for you to begin building the portal, which our resourceful Hawkeye will procure."

Half an hour later, Hawkeye was beginning to wonder if his resourcefulness would suffice. Besides Selvig's scientific genius, Loki's scepter, and his own skills and contacts, they had nothing with which to begin realizing Loki's ambitious plans except for the gear from the SHIELD jeep. Hawkeye listened carefully and with growing consternation as Selvig elaborated on the resources he would need to build Loki's hyperdimensional bridge. Even with Loki's assurance that they need only unleash, not control, the Tesseract's power, and his allies will do the rest, they would need highly specialized and delicate equipment and the manpower to move, assemble, and operate it, all with little money to fund it.

"Of course we'll also need protective gear, plastic sheeting, at least three laptops with high processing capacity, and food to keep us going for…" Selvig trailed off, blinking, as if he had forgotten what he was saying. Hawkeye looked up to see Loki approaching; as the god drew near, Selvig stood and walked away, clearly dismissed, and the Asgardian took his place at the kitchen table with an expectant smile.

"So, my dear Agent Barton," Loki prompted, "what do you suggest?"

Hawkeye paused for a moment, his eyes focused on the arrow in the wall across the room as he sorted his thoughts carefully. "None of us can show our faces in public," he began slowly, "since Fury will have facial recognition running on all the cameras he can get his hands on. Both of our passports will be marked and watched, even if we could risk going to another airport. All our SHIELD accounts will be shut down and monitored for attempted access, all safehouses and assets will be on high alert, and we're still within a day's travel of the base we brought down. We're safe here at the moment, but as soon as we make a move, SHIELD will strike." Hawkeye frowned into the distance. "What we need are allies. If we can make common cause with an influential organization, we can get the resources we need. But it has to be fast. Every minute that goes by increases the chance of SHIELD tracking us down."

Loki was silent for a moment, deep in thought as well. "Then we should make a plan. Tell me what you know about SHIELD." The god fixed him with a piercing green stare. "I want to know my enemy."

Hawkeye opened his mouth to comply, but paused, frowning in thought. "Enemies…"

Loki raised his eyebrows expectantly. "Yes?"

"I know where we can get everything we need, but we'll have to go now."

Loki stood, and Hawkeye followed suit. The god was smiling in satisfaction. "Let us be on our way, then."

…

Clint stood gratefully, feeling the pull in his muscles, and took a sip of the coffee that had been left on the table for him. It tasted like metal and scorched dirt, with nowhere near enough sugar, and was lukewarm at best; he'd left it untouched for too long, caught up in his narrative. He'd been sitting in the metal chair for hours—there was no way, in the windowless room, to keep track of the passage of time, but he had some practice at that kind of thing—talking his throat dry, to the point where he was pretty sure his ass had flattened to the shape of the chair. A shame, that, he mused; he had worked hard to keep it in better form. Still, he was well-accustomed to holding the same posture for endless hours, waiting for the perfect shot, although usually not when he was quite so battered and exhausted. His initial diagnosis of his injuries was shifting as time and immobility brought out the deep ache of strains and bruises.

And usually, he wasn't describing in detail how he'd betrayed everything he cared about and fought for.

Before the briefing started, Clint had thought hard about how to present this tragic drama to his interviewers. Should he be contrite, apologetic, apathetic? He'd been trained to never begin an interrogation on either side of the table without a strategy, but he'd never reached a decision on this one; he just let the words spill out of him, trying to remove any emotion. That was easier than he thought, since the memories he was immersed in were mostly devoid of any particular emotion to begin with. Even so, the memories were too clear for his taste, too sharp and immediate; every detail stood out in his mind, as if carved into his consciousness, accompanied by a sense of absolute, unshakable clarity and focus. Nothing had mattered to him but accomplishing Loki's goals, and even recalling those alien thoughts, he could feel his pulse quicken with determination.

Still, it was strange to report, with a detached and steady voice, how he had given everything to the enemy, even secrets that he had fought and bled and killed for, with no coercion whatsoever—to look Fury in the eye and describe how he had, on an enemy's orders, shot the Director in the heart. The very ease of it bothered him—it had seemed at the time perfectly natural and right. Much in the same way, he thought with sudden discomfort, as his current debriefing did. He rolled his neck to ease the ache radiating up into his skull.

Across the table from him, Meyer and Arai conferred in undertones, occasionally glancing his way with hard eyes. Clint ignored them, pacing the length of the room, taking his time over his terrible coffee, collecting his thoughts again for the next round. The two agents had followed his words closely, checking his account against video printouts and reports, clarifying and confirming with occasionally very pointed questions. Meyer was fighting control the accusation in his voice while Arai was careful to keep his features neutral, but Clint could read the indignation and anger in both of them with ease. He wondered if they had had friends that had died on at the compound or on the helicarrier, perhaps even by a well-placed arrow. He felt the defensiveness rising in him to counter their high-handed contempt: he wanted to shout and gesticulate and rage, _Do you think this is what I wanted?_ _Do you think you would have done any better?_

But more than that, more insidiously, he felt resentment sink into a tight knot in his chest. How many times had he sat in a room like this, in a fucking uncomfortable chair, bandaged and patched up and medicated and sucking down caffeine-infused sludge to stay intelligible, describing with detached precision the details of deception and death while across the table the agents in charge of the case listened and nodded in complacent satisfaction? How many times had he told _those_ stories, the same story as this one but with different names, and they said things like "operational efficiency" and "acceptable loss" and "collateral damage" and waved the ugliness casually away? Clint would be the last to dispute that Loki was evil, but he wasn't a fucking idiot—he knew better than to assume that meant SHIELD was good.

The door of the interrogation room opened and Fury swept back in. Clint caught a glimpse of Agent Hill outside the door, and surprised himself by giving her a vicious grin and a wink before the heavy door swung shut. He crushed the empty coffee cup in his hand and tossed in a corner. Arai and Meyer had fallen silent on Fury's return, and they returned to their places at the table. Fury turned to face Clint, leaning against the back of his own chair, and gestured to Clint's seat.

"Shall we continue, Agent Barton?"

Clint resumed his place in silence as Fury sat down across from him. The unfairness of Meyer and Arai's condemnation burned in him. He knew he would regret it, that he would hate himself for it later, that it would probably come back to bite him in the very near future, but he was sick of bending over backwards to spare other people's feelings and the temptation was too strong. They wanted to know how he had invaded the helicarrier, how he had turned Loki from an outcast into an imminent threat, how he had survived and flourished with all the might of SHIELD hunting him down?

He'd tell them. And he'd enjoy it.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: And here we are at chapter 5, aka Hawkeye, Selvig and Loki's Magical Road Trip Adventure, aka Hawkeye Forgets This Isn't A Bourne Movie. It has been...well, an inexcusably long time. A massive thanks to **Alpha Flyer** and **Nock and Bolt** for poking me and not letting me abandon this poor story. It will continue to suffer neglect for a while since I'm entering the final bouts of writing a MSc dissertation/moving flats/starting a PhD/jobhunting/doing archery but I'll try to post every once in a while. If you feel like it's been too long, feel free to tell me so!

Thanks to the chapter 4 reviewers: lunarweather, TheNaggingCube, Alpha Flyer, whovian42, kyri0sity, and Nock and Bolt. Here goes...

* * *

Hawkeye shut the gas cap and slid back into the driver's seat of the rental car. It had taken him ages to find a gas station in a small enough town that it didn't have an army of cameras for SHIELD to tap into. He'd spared some of their jealously conserved funds for water and food, even if it was unhealthy crap. All this sitting in small spaces and keeping his head down was starting to wear on him, a low buzz in the back of his mind, although his body felt like a coiled spring ready to strike and his attention was unwavering. Hawkeye hadn't slept since—well, since before his rebirth, and how far before he couldn't quite remember. The life he had had before the azure gem broke into his head and flooded every dark crevice of his mind with light was no longer important, a haze of shameful, shadowy memories. The emotions and thoughts he remembered from that former life were too disturbing, too incongruous, so he tried to ignore them as much as he could.

He started the car and pulled back onto the road, handing two bottles of water to Selvig in the back seat. The scientist hadn't even left the car to stretch his legs when they'd stopped at the station. Digging through the gear stashed in the safehouse compartment, Hawkeye had found an old laptop, hopelessly out of date but still usable. They'd picked up a pay-as-you-go Internet USB on their way out of town, and Loki and Selvig had had a long discussion about exactly what sort of materials and parts they would need to build…whatever it was. Since then, Selvig had been working tirelessly at the computer, with only an occasional grunt of frustration when the ancient machine froze up.

In the seat beside Hawkeye, Loki was staring absently out the window, his eyes locked on the patches of blue between the fluffy white clouds. His fingers absently traced the curved edge of the bladed scepter in his lap. The god had been silent for the last forty miles, and Hawkeye knew without asking that he shouldn't interrupt.

They pulled back onto the highway and soon the landscape was rushing by, endless rolling fields as far as the eye could see. After fifteen minutes of silence punctuated by the tapping of the laptop's keys, Loki finally spoke.

"You never answered my question."

Hawkeye swallowed, feeling the discomfort in his chest, the same as when Loki had demanded to know why he hadn't killed Fury when he had the chance. The last thing he would want to do was disappoint Loki. "Which one, sir?"

"About SHIELD. I would hear from you about this last great defense that stands between me and my destiny."

Hawkeye couldn't help but smile a fraction. "I've worked for Fury for years. The Raft will find us and burn us to cinders before I have time to tell half of what I know about SHIELD."

Loki caught the smile and grinned back, but his eyes never changed. "Start with this Raft and we shall see."

Hawkeye talked. His tongue was loosed and his words flowed freely; he had never felt more eloquent. He detailed the size and capabilities on the Raft, the weaponry and aircraft on hand, the size and training of the crew, their positions at any given time, their schedules and their assignments. He described the structure of the helicarrier, the best points of entry, the best ways to bring it down. He spoke of Coulson, of Fury, of Agent Hill—what he knew of their past, their temperaments, their training, their personalities, their capabilities and talents in the field. He explained how Fury lost his eye and how he himself and Coulson had tried to keep Thor from recovering Mjölnir.

"You were there?" Loki laughed, apparently delighted. "Perhaps that is what drew me to you. Or was it you that were drawn to me?" Hawkeye didn't have an answer, so he simply said "I don't know, sir," and waited until Loki sighed and prompted him to continue.

Hawkeye explained the command structure of SHIELD itself, its missions, its goals, its methods, its resources, and his own place in the organization as an asset in the field. He outlined how he had come to work for SHIELD—a long and convoluted story that Loki seemed to have little interest in hearing—and his work with the organization since. He didn't even realize how long he'd been talking until he began to detail his partnership with the Black Widow and his voice cracked. He paused to swallow and realized that he didn't remember stopping for breath in a while.

Loki was still watching him that same intent look, even though his mouth was smiling. "Take a moment to rest, Agent Barton, and have a drink." He waved a hand over his shoulder, and a moment later Selvig looked up from his computer and handed one of the bottles of water to Hawkeye before returning to his calculations. Hawkeye took a mouthful, aware that their resources, even of water, were limited. Loki's expression hadn't changed, but Hawkeye could feel his impatience. "Now, you were saying about Agent Romanoff?"

Hawkeye nodded, staring at the interminable highway before them, momentarily at a loss for words. He remembered Natasha with painful clarity, but the camaraderie, the sense that their partnership was important and valuable, the concern he had felt for her welfare, all seemed inexplicable and silly since he acquired new purpose. He could clearly recall their many missions together, but he wondered why those memories were so colored by a fierce determination to protect and help her, even beyond his dedication to duty.

"Ah, a bit of cognitive dissonance troubles you, I believe," Loki murmured sympathetically. "Worry not, my friend, that will pass. You are remembering an earlier life, before you were set free. It does you credit that the delusions of your former self seem…absurd to you now. Have no shame; tell me and I can help you."

Once again, Hawkeye's tongue ran away with him, as if there was a direct line between his memories and his mouth. He told about his first meeting with Natasha, about his decision to spare her, and made no effort to hide his own bafflement at his actions. He told everything he knew of her life, which, despite his research into her past before they met and countless long stakeout conversations since, was scanty enough. He discoursed much more fluently on her habits and mannerisms, her aspirations and her darkest fears, the iron will that pushed her forward and the terrible guilt that chased her from her past. He didn't realize he'd trailed off into silence until Loki spoke.

"Who is she to you? This Black Widow."

Hawkeye shook his head. "An enemy." In his head, he believed it, he knew it to be true. Nevertheless, the words felt strange, as if he was trying to pronounce a foreign language.

Loki was eyeing him closely but seemed to change his mind about pursuing the matter further. "What will Fury's next move be? Surely such a _warrior_—" Loki spat the word sarcastically, like an insult—"will not simply wait idly by."

"You will have to contend with him, sir," Hawkeye confirmed. "He'll be putting together a team."

"Will they be a problem?"

"More danger to themselves than to us," Hawkeye muttered half to himself. He'd seen the files—Fury had even approached him once about joining the Initiative. Hawkeye had less-than-respectfully declined. He'd known better than to get himself tangled up with a bunch of megalomaniacal superhumans. "But if Fury can focus them, they might throw some noise our way."

"Tell me."

Hawkeye began with Tony Stark—the billionaire, the genius, the inventor, and the armored hero with a dangerously swollen ego and a talent, among many others, for pissing off just about everyone. Next was Steve Rogers, the super-powered soldier lost in time who delivered the Tesseract to SHIELD in the first place. When he started on Bruce Banner, though—the unstoppable monster in the body of a gentle and brilliant scientist—Loki's expression turned from intense interest to delight, and Hawkeye knew he'd said something right.

"A monster of pure rage," he mused. "Mindless and unstoppable. What a wonderful creature."

Hawkeye hadn't realized how long he'd been talking. The hours had slipped by and the signs were pointing them to the city. He flicked on the blinker to exit, leaving Loki to his thoughts. "We're here," he tossed at Selvig over his shoulder.

"Great," Selvig replied without looking up. "I think I've got it worked out."

...

Strolling around the streets was incredibly dangerous, but Hawkeye had no other way to make contact. He'd left Loki and Selvig at the newly established safehouse to re-run Selvig's calculations in detail. His job was not quite as delicate, but it would require a careful touch.

Hawkeye kept his eyes carefully hidden behind his sunglasses, lest the glow of his eyes—or for that matter, the shape of his face on a video feed—attract unwanted attention. He fingered the two burner phones that he'd just purchased; it was just before four, and he was right on time.

A young man turned the corner around the block and came hurrying up the sidewalk. He was dressed in a long black jacket and his face was crumpled in a frown of concentration. The dark brown hair, innocent face, medium build—Hawkeye recognized Agent Pollock from his official SHIELD headshot in the file. He set off in the young man's direction, pulling the second phone out of his pocket and pretending to text.

Hawkeye let the distracted Pollock barrel right into him, knocking the phone out of his hand. The phone skittered across the sidewalk to land at Pollock's feet. "I'm so sorry," the young man blurted, reddening. He picked up the phone and offered it to Hawkeye. "Here."

"That must be yours," Hawkeye said. "I've got mine right here." He drew the first phone out of his pocket to show the young man.

Pollock frowned in confusion. It was clear he was still new at this. "But…"

"If you don't need it," Hawkeye suggested, "you could always give it to someone else."

Realization was dawning on Pollock's face, embarrassingly easy to read. "My boss MacMillan could use about twelve new phones," he replied.

"See, it all works out," Hawkeye said with a shrug, already moving away. Pollock must have been chosen for his technical expertise and not, by even the most generous measure, his competence in the field. Hawkeye could only hope that the young agent was savvy enough to get the hint.

He'd find out soon enough. In the meantime, Hawkeye had some calculations of his own to do.

…

The sun was setting in the distance, staining the sky a deep red. Hawkeye pulled himself over the top of the access ladder onto the roof he had chosen and allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. The diffuse light made unilluminated navigation easy, but the lights were going on in the offices and skyscrapers on every side. The contrast made both picking out targets and staying invisible all too easy.

Hawkeye approached the edge of the roof and looked over. On top of the next building, he could make out the tiny red LED blinking at him, indicating a good transmission. Beyond that, MacMillan Tower loomed, rising far above into the darkening sky, its windows lit up like a Christmas tree; the figures moving, talking, pretending to work inside were as clearly visible as if they were ten feet away.

Carefully, his boots crunching on the gravel, Hawkeye measured the paces to the right spot. He marked the distance by setting down his gear, then measured again—the margin for error was too miniscule not to double-check. Satisfied by the results, he knelt and unpacked his bow, quiver, and sunglasses. Once he had inspected all his gear—again; he couldn't be too certain, since the weapon hadn't been properly maintained for a while—he positioned himself on the right spot and slid the sunglasses over his eyes.

For a moment everything was dark; then the glasses responded to his body heat and the display lit up in red. Wind direction, air temperature, weather forecasts, distance to object of foveal fixation—everything he would need to know burned in dusky crimson readouts in the periphery of his vision. The critical component, however, would be the video link. Hawkeye slid the small switch on the arm of the glasses, and in the lower left-hand corner, the video feed flickered to life. The camera, situated on the edge of the next building over, looked down into MacMillan Tower, into the windows on the twelfth floor. The intervening building stood between him and that conference room, which meant he couldn't be spotted, but it also meant he had no direct line of sight.

Luckily for him, he didn't need a straight line.

Hawkeye pulled the burner cell from his pocket and dialed the first preprogrammed number. He pressed send and waited as the connection went through, ringing through the uplink to his comm earpiece.

"Yes," a sophisticated, German-accented voice answered. Hawkeye smiled.

"Herr Doktor Haas, I presume," he said by way of greeting.

"Who is this?" Haas demanded. There was a surprised pause. "This isn't my phone."

"Consider it a gift," Hawkeye said dismissively. "I've heard a lot about your work, Herr Doktor, and my employer would like to invite you to enter a mutually beneficial arrangement."

In the tiny video screen, Hawkeye saw a dignified figure in an expensive suit approach the full-length window in the twelfth floor conference room and look out across the buildings awash in the gold of the sunset. Hawkeye didn't need to recognize the phone he'd handed to Pollock earlier, now pressed to Haas' ear; he knew the regal features and intense eyes by heart from the briefing folder Coulson had handed him so long ago.

"Don't be ridiculous," Haas scoffed over the phone. "You could be anyone. What should induce me to have any dealings with you?"

"I can help you."

"Help me? You, mysterious caller? I assure you, I am in no need of your help."

"Then you don't need me to tell you about the SHIELD mole in your organization."

There was a long, tense pause. "Speak quickly."

"I'd rather show than tell. You have all the new recruits there for the reception. Look for one answering his phone. Don't hang up."

"What—"

Hawkeye put Haas on mute and dialed the other number. The phone rang and rang; Hawkeye felt his fingers twitch with impatience.

"Hello," a somewhat breathless voice answered finally.

"All clear, Agent Pollock?"

"Yes."

"Where is Haas now?"

"Twelve." The agent's voice was casual, but the undercurrent of tension was clear to Hawkeye's ears.

"Hours he'll stay?"

"Two should be fine."

"Good. Toss this phone. SHIELD will contact you with further instructions when it's finished."

"Sure."

Hawkeye ended the call and unmuted Haas' line. The rage seeping through the connection was palpable. "That was…most instructive," Haas nearly growled. The line was momentarily muffled as Haas spat out coldly furious directions. "And you're from SHIELD as well, I presume?" the voice came back, once again composed.

"Former," Hawkeye said. He drew the first arrow from his quiver and nocked it carefully on the string.

"What happened?"

"I got a better offer."

Haas laughed. "A man who knows what he wants, I see."

The guards returned, dragging a terrified Pollock with them. One handed the recovered phone to Haas as the other shoved the agent to his knees. Hawkeye examined the video image carefully as he drew the bowstring smoothly back to his jaw.

"If you would excuse me a moment, I will take care of this traitor," Haas said circumspectly. "Then I would be interested to hear more about your mutually beneficial arrangement."

"Don't bother. I got him," Hawkeye said, and released. As the first arrow winged away, skimming past the tiny webcam and dropping out of sight, he was already drawing the second from his quiver. The first arrow struck the window and exploded on impact, showering Haas, the guards, and Pollock with glass. Hawkeye was already at full draw, and the moment the first arrow destroyed the window, he loosed the second. The video feed in the corner of his eye wobbled as the arrow shot past. Pollock convulsed as the bladed projectile fell from the darkening sky and buried itself in his chest, entering through his side as he turned from the window and skewering him through. Hawkeye crinkled his nose in disappointment. He hadn't hit the heart directly, but the man's lungs were ruined and filling up with blood. The agent collapsed, gasping, red spraying from his lips and pooling around him on the beige carpet.

Haas crouched by the shuddering agent, his face impassive. Hawkeye watched on his feed as Haas inspected the arrow buried in Pollock's chest, ignoring the man's gurgling whimpers. "The infamous Hawkeye, I presume," Haas said finally, his voice pensive. "Your reputation precedes you."

"You want to know if I was at the test facility," Hawkeye said. He collapsed his bow and packed it in the bag with his quiver, getting ready to move. Haas' calm voice belied the fact that the bodyguards were peering out the window into the darkness, guns raised, to find the source of the attack, and Hawkeye knew more would be coming to search the surrounding buildings. "I was."

"Until?"

"Until my better offer destroyed it and took the Tesseract for a greater purpose." Hawkeye slung the bag over his shoulders and made for the ladder. "Meet at Icarus on 42nd in two hours." He hung up, and almost as an afterthought, aimed carefully. The phone arced through the air and hit the base of the webcam, sending both devices tumbling to smash on the pavement far below. The feed in Hawkeye's sunglasses winked out as he removed them, tucked them in a pocket, and slipped away into the gathering night.


End file.
